Evelyn Waugh: The Complete Stories Of Evelyn Waugh

The “set,” too, has been conscientiously planned. The walls are hung with pots, pans and paintings—these last mainly a series of rather fleshly nudes which young Mr. Maltby has been unable to sell. A very brown skeleton hangs over the dais at the far end

“I say, Gladys, do you think we shall see ’is models?”

“Coo, Ada, you are a one.”

Adam comes in and goes towards the board on which hangs a plan of the easel places; the girl who was lending the “fixative” comes over to him, still smoking.

“THERE’S A PLACE EMPTY NEXT TO ME, DOURE, DO COME THERE.”

Close up of the girl.

“She’s in love with ’im.”

Close up of Adam.

“’E’s not in love with ’er, though, is ’e, Ada?”

The place the girl points out is an excellent one in the second row; the only other one besides the very front and the very back is round at the side, next to the stove. Adam signs his initials opposite this place.

“I’M SORRY—I’M AFRAID THAT I FIND THE LIGHT WORRIES ME FROM WHERE YOU ARE—ONE GETS SO FEW SHADOWS—DON’T YOU FIND?”

The girl is not to be discouraged; she lights another cigarette.

“I SAW YOU LAST NIGHT AT THE COCKATRICE—YOU DIDN’T SEE ME THOUGH.”

“THE COCKATRICE—LAST NIGHT—OH YES—WHAT A PITY!”

“WHO WERE ALL THOSE PEOPLE YOU WERE WITH?”

“OH, I DON’T KNOW, JUST SOME PEOPLE, YOU KNOW.”

He makes a movement as if to go away.

“WHO WAS THAT GIRL YOU WERE DANCING WITH SO MUCH—THE PRETTY ONE WITH FAIR HAIR—IN BLACK?”

“OH, DON’T YOU KNOW HER? YOU MUST MEET HER ONE DAY—I SAY, I’M AWFULLY SORRY, BUT I MUST GO DOWN AND GET SOME PAPER FROM MISS PHILBRICK.”

“I CAN LEND YOU SOME.”

But he is gone.

Ada says, “Too much talk in this picture, eh, Gladys?” and the voice with the Cambridge accent is heard saying something about the “elimination of the caption.”

ONE OF LIFE’S UNFORTUNATES.

Enter a young woman huddled in a dressing-gown, preceded by young Mr. Maltby.

“The model—coo—I say.”

She has a slight cold and sniffles into a tiny ball of handkerchief; she mounts the dais and sits down ungracefully. Young Mr. Maltby nods good morning to those of the pupils who catch his eye; the girl who was talking to Adam catches his eye; he smiles.

“’E’s in love with ’er.”

She returns his smile with warmth.

Young Mr. Maltby rattles the stove, opens the skylight a little and then turns to the model, who slips off her dressing gown and puts it over the back of the chair.

“Coo—I say. Ada—my!”

“Well I never.”

The young man from Cambridge goes on talking about Matisse unfalteringly as though he were well accustomed to this sort of thing. Actually he is much intrigued.

She has disclosed a dull pink body with rather short legs and red elbows; like most professional models her toes are covered with bunions and malformed. Young Mr. Maltby sets her on the chair in an established Art School pose. The class settles to work.

Adam returns with some sheets of paper and proceeds to arrange them on his board. Then he stands for some time glaring at the model without drawing a line.

“’E’s in love with ’er.” But for once Ada’s explanation is wrong— and then begins sketching in the main lines of the pose.

He works on for five or six minutes, during which time the heat of the stove becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Old Mr. Maltby, breathing smoke, comes up behind him.

“Now have you placed it? What is your centre? Where is the foot going to come? Where is the top of the head coming?”

Adam has not placed it; he rubs it out angrily and starts again.

Meanwhile a vivid flirtation is in progress between young Mr. Maltby and the girl who was in love with Adam. He is leaning over and pointing out mistakes to her; his hand rests on her shoulder; she is wearing a low-necked jumper; his thumb strays over the skin of her neck; she wriggles appreciatively. He takes the charcoal from her and begins drawing in the corner of her paper; her hair touches his cheek; neither of them heed the least what he is drawing.

“These Bo’emians don’t ’alf carry on, eh, Gladys?”

In half an hour Adam has rubbed out his drawing three times. Whenever he is beginning to interest himself in some particular combination of shapes, the model raises her ball of handkerchief to her nose, and after each sniff relapses into a slightly different position. The anthracite stove glows with heat; he works on for another half hour.

THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK REST.

Most of the girls light cigarettes; the men, who have increased in number with many late arrivals, begin to congregate away from them in the corner. One of them is reading The Studio . Adam lights a pipe, and standing back, surveys his drawing with detestation.

Close up; Adam’s drawing. It is not really at all bad. In fact it is by far the best in the room; there is one which will be better at the end of the week, but at present there is nothing of it except some measurements and geometrical figures. Its author is unaware that the model is resting; he is engaged in calculating the medial section of her height in the corner of the paper.

Adam goes out on to the stairs, which are lined with women from the lower studio eating buns out of bags. He returns to the studio.

The girl who has been instructed by young Mr. Maltby comes up to him and looks at his drawing.

“Rather Monday morningish.”

That was exactly what young Mr. Maltby had said about hers.

The model resumes her pose with slight differences; the paper bags are put away, pipes are knocked out; the promising pupil is calculating the area of a rectangle.

The scene changes to

158 PONT STREET. THE LONDON HOUSE

OF MR. CHARLES AND LADY ROSEMARY QUEST.

An interior is revealed in which the producers have at last made some attempt to satisfy the social expectations of Gladys and Ada. It is true that there is very little marble and no footmen in powder and breeches, but there is nevertheless an undoubted air of grandeur about the high rooms and Louis Seize furniture, and there is a footman. The young man from Cambridge estimates the household at six thousand a year, and though somewhat overgenerous, it is a reasonable guess. Lady Rosemary’s collection of Limoges can be seen in the background.

Upstairs in her bedroom Imogen Quest is telephoning.

“What a lovely Kimony, Ada.”

Miss Philbrick comes into the upper studio at Maltby’s, where Adam is at last beginning to take some interest in his drawing.

“MISS QUEST WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU ON THE TELEPHONE, MR. DOURE. I told her that it was against the rules for students to use the telephone except in the luncheon hour” (there is always a pathetic game of make-believe at Maltby’s played endlessly by Miss Philbrick and old Mr. Maltby, in which they pretend that somewhere there is a code of rules which all must observe), “but she says that it is most important. I do wish you would ask your friends not to ring you up in the mornings.”

Adam puts down his charcoal and follows her to the office.

There over the telephone is poor Miss Philbrick’s notice written in the script writing she learned at night classes in Southampton Row.

“Students are forbidden to use the telephone during working hours.”

“Good morning, Imogen.”

“Yes, quite safely—very tired though.”

“I can’t, Imogen—for one thing I haven’t the money.”

“No, you can’t afford it either. Anyway, I’m dining with Lady R. tonight. You can tell me then, surely?”

“Why not?”